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In the Neighborhoods of Ann Arbor

I didn’t know Etta particularly well before I met her. Even after I met her, I felt like I knew her even less. I knew she had an old-timey name. And that she liked old-timey music. I liked that about her.

Patrick brought her along tonight specifically for me. He knew I’d been feeling down for the last couple weeks and thought she would help. Friends always seem to think setting you up is the best way to cure the blues, but it never is. You can’t cure vulnerability with vulnerable scenarios.

The three of us were headed to a party somewhere off campus near U of M. Patrick insisted we bring beer to this party, but failed to have this urge until we had already made it to the neighborhood the party was being held. I could here the music a block over from the house. I imagined people gyrating to the beats, drunk, delirious and dizzy. But here I was, standing in the middle of the street, hoping Patrick would remember where the closest liquor store was.

Already a little high and more than a little drunk from pre-gaming, Patrick looked down nearly identical streets leading in adjacent directions. “I think it’s down Cherry,” he muttered to himself. Five or six feet behind him, I stood with my hands in my pockets trying to think of something to say to Etta.

“So, did you grow up in Ann Arbor?” I asked.

“No, I’m from Saugatuck. I came down here to Eastern.”

“Saugatuck, huh? Nice beach.”

“Yeah.”

Fuck. I hit a wall. What are you supposed to ask after a response like that? I just stared at her in some kind of stupor. She was incredibly pretty. Her hair was dyed jet black and held back by a gray headband. She wore skinny jeans, a sea foam green v-neck and a cropped, black leather jacket. If she was wearing Chucks instead of flats, she could have played in a all-girl Ramones cover band. Patrick broke the silence. He was pointing down the street he had been looking at five minutes.

“It’s most definitely not down this road,” He shouted to us at an abnormally high volume. “So it must be down Eighth.”

Neither Etta nor I said anything in response Patrick. We just followed behind him 10-or-so paces in silence. She knew she was being set up too. But she didn’t seem as pleased about the other half as I was. We both desperately needed alcohol in us to facilitate some kind of normal conversation.

“So, you’re at Eastern? What’s your major?” I asked.

“I dropped out.”

“Well, what was your major?”

“Education.”

“Did you like it?”

“I dropped out.”

“Good point,” I awkwardly chuckled. “I should have put that together.”

Patrick had picked the right street, because I could see the neon sign just over the hill. It beckoned me. Like some beer-laden tractor beam, it was roping me in to drink my troubles and awkwardness away. Patrick’s mood improved and his pace quickened.

“Why are you so determined to please me?” Etta asked from a dark corner of her mind.

The beer was close. But I had to climb this hurdle before I could indulge myself.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You’ve been making awkward small talk since you guys picked me up.”

“Is that bad?”

She paused. Searching for some words to either let me down easy or cut me deeper, “Conversations are not meant to be molded by people who have no business conducting them.”

It was a deeper cut. Patrick entered the store first and I held the door for Etta. She walked in, looking at the ground.

“A feeble attempt at talking will always be more courageous than an accepted defeat,” I told her.

The beer helped. But it didn’t take any sour taste out of my mouth for the rest of the night.